


God of Heroes

by KLStarre



Category: Cosmere - Brandon Sanderson, Warbreaker - Brandon Sanderson
Genre: Backstory, Breath, Character Study, Gen, Pre-Canon, Resurrection, Secret Sazed 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2020-01-25 14:12:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18576115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KLStarre/pseuds/KLStarre
Summary: Lightsong never wanted to be a god.





	God of Heroes

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for Secret Sazed 2018!

            A man without a name wakes up. Truthfully, the definition of ‘man’ escapes him, but it is woven into what little concept of self he still possesses. He is nude, and lying on his back, underneath blankets of exactly the right thickness and exactly the right texture, and the ceiling above him is gilded. He blinks.

            He feels as if he should have a name, and is nearly certain that he did, once. There is something, just at the corner of his thoughts, but it slips away before he can grasp it, like a discontinuity in someone’s accounts that he is trying to pin down with not enough sleep. He doesn’t know why that particular metaphor comes to mind. In fact, as he tries more and more frantically to remember anything about himself, he realizes that he doesn’t know much of anything.

            _Colors._

            He sits up, and is immediately exhausted, even though the blankets still cover him and he has barely moved. His thoughts swim, and his vision seems almost to vibrate. “Colors!” he exclaims again, but out loud, this time, and the door swings open immediately.

            It is so surprising that it takes the man without a name a breath to process that it had not happened on its own, and there was in fact another man now standing in the doorway. The man without a name thinks that this new visitor is tall, but then realizes that he is easily looking down on him, so maybe not. He is portly, and wearing glasses. These two things the man without a name can tell for sure.

            “Who are you? What are you doing here?” the man without a name asks, slightly out of breath, before realizing that it would have been smarter to ask for his own name. Or where _here_ was.

            The other man bows, so low that it must hurt his back, and his glasses dislodge slightly from his nose. “I am Llarimar, Your Grace. Your high priest.” When he straightens up, is there a degree of disappointment in his eyes?

            “My _what?”_ the man without a name asks, his voice louder than, possibly, he had intended.

            The opening of the door has allowed sunlight to stream through, illuminating the tapestries that surround the bed and the rich purple carpeting. Now that Llarimar has spoken, the man without a name notices that, maybe, the colors that he can see are incredibly vibrant. Maybe, perhaps, more vibrant than they ever could be with just the power of dye. He is remembering something, something about gods, something about colors, something about death –

            “Yes, Your Grace. You are one of the Returned. You died performing a feat of great bravery, worthy of incredible honor.”

            Something about what Llarimar says triggers something in the man without a name, a memory, but it feels almost unreal, like a memory of a dream, or, wait, yes, it _is_ a memory of a dream, a dream of violence and death and destruction and, oh gods (a small part of him wonders if he’s allowed to say that if he is, actually, a god), _everything_ is burning.

            Everything is burning.

            “Don’t be ridiculous. I can’t be a Returned, I don’t even know my own name.” Admitting it feels vulnerable, somehow. Like he’s stripping his skin off to reveal the inner workings of his body to this person he’s just met.

            “You are Lightsong, Your Grace. God of Bravery, Lord of Heroes.”

            A wave of nausea hits, then, and the man without a name – no, _Lightsong -_ has to close his eyes to avoid throwing up. “Lord of Heroes, eh? Then why do I feel like I’m about to die a second time?” Just saying those words feels weird. Die a second time? He doesn’t even remember dying a first time, nevertheless believe that it happened.

            Llarimar hesitates before he answers, which is probably not a good sign. “It is your feast day, Your Grace. You’ve been asleep for nearly a week, since your Return. No doubt you are hungry.”

            That…actually makes sense, although Lightsong would have assumed that being a god would mean that he wouldn’t have to eat. Not that he actually believes he’s a god. That would be ridiculous. “So where can I eat? If I’m really a Returned, shouldn’t I have a thousand servants with a feast already prepared?” Lightsong realizes this sounds like a reprimand only after he has finished speaking, and almost says something to rectify it, but Llarimar doesn’t look put off at all.

            “That can be arranged, of course, but by hungry, I meant…well, a different kind of sustenance.”

            The first thought that comes to mind is to ask – jokingly, of course – where his harem is located, if it’s a different kind of sustenance which he requires. But then he remembers. He remembers what it is that the Returned feed on. His stomach drops, as if it weren’t sick enough already.

            “Oh.” Lightsong says, accidentally, out loud. “Do I have to?”

            “If you do not, you will die, Your Grace. And, if you will permit me saying so, it would be a wasted death. The Breath would simply go to another Returned, in another week. Or to whoever would take your place.”

            “Yes, but…” Lightsong doesn’t have an argument. He can feel his own dizziness, his own hunger. He has known, for years, what the gods feast on. But, well. As far as he can remember – which, to be fair, is not nearly far enough – it has never impacted him directly. “Well, then. Let’s get it over with. Do I have to clothe myself, or will you ‘Your Grace’ your way over here and help me out?”

            This is mean but, honestly, Lightsong doesn’t care, beyond a minor twinge of guilt. As far as he’s concerned, he has no right to be a god, and anyone who believes that he is deserves to be mocked a bit. And, also, he genuinely does need help getting dressed. He has no idea where his clothes are, or even if he has clothes.

            Suddenly, he feels very, very empty, and very, very alone.

            “Of course I’ll help,” Llarimar responds, and although Lightsong is conscious of the dropping of the honorific, he is also aware of the smile on Llarimar’s face, even though “his god” had just mocked him. Bizarre. Yet comforting, somehow.

            The clothes that are available are a god’s clothes, gleaming armor that would crumple in an instant if any pressure were applied to it and flowing robes replete with intricate embroidery. The entire wardrobe is in red and gold, and Llarimar explains, before Lightsong asks, that those are his colors as the god of bravery. It takes a lot of effort to refrain from mockery, but Lightsong manages it, and eventually he is standing in the center of the cavernous room in the simplest loose robe he could find. It exposes his chest but, in the process of getting dressed, he had discovered that he was now rippling with muscle, and at least a full head taller than Llarimar, so he doesn’t actually feel a need to complain about that.

            It’s also hard to complain when he is so out of breath that, even just standing there, he has to lean on Llarimar for support. Llarimar is the perfect height for an armrest.

            “Are you ready, Your Grace?” Llarimar asks, presumably when he judges Lightsong to have recovered sufficiently.

            “Ready as I’ll ever be,” Lightsong responds, although he certainly hopes that isn’t true.   

            Slowly, with many stops and shuffles and pauses, the God of Bravery and his High Priest make their way through the many corridors of the palace – the realization of it being a palace sets in on Lightsong slowly, and then grows into astonishment. Lightsong wants to ask questions, questions about everything, but doesn’t know how to without making it seem as if he actually thinks any of this nonsense is real, and not some elaborate prank being played on him for incomprehensible reasons. Luckily, Llarimar narrates as they walk.

            “That’s the Returned who used to live here, I believe she sacrificed her Divine Breath only a month or two ago. That’s where the first statue of you will go, once it is commissioned. That’s the window that overlooks the East Courtyard…” He trails off when Lightsong looks at him. “Yes, Your Grace?”

            “Who else lives here?”

            “Why, your servants, of course, and the other priests, and mys- ”

            “That’s all? No family, or, I don’t know, friends?”

            “Your family is still alive, Your Grace, and you are not supposed to have any continued connection to your previous life. You will befriend the other Returned quite easily, I am sure.”

            “But – ” Lightsong starts to protest, but Llarimar cuts him off, almost automatically.

            “We are here. Do you know what you must do?”

            The two have come to a stop before an archway with wooden doors so gigantic they could be the doors to the palace itself. They are gilded, too, like seemingly everything else, and as Lightsong looks at them a feeling of dread takes root in his chest and wraps itself around his throat. “I do,” he says, and it’s true, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to be able to do it. He suddenly feels bad about giving Llarimar a hard time. People are worshiping him, apparently, fully and truly, and he feels as if he has the right to take that away from him? He swallows.

            The doors swing open, and Lightsong steps inside. The doors close behind him with a muffled thump.

            Standing in the middle of the empty room is a child, maybe eight or nine, her back tall and her eyes wide. She looks braver than Lightsong thinks he could ever be, which he doesn’t want to dwell on. He hears her sharp intake of breath as he steps toward her, and tries to ignore it as he kneels in front of her. “What’s your name?” he asks, doing his best to sound comforting.

            He doesn’t really know what comforting sounds like.

            “Telera, Your Grace.” Her voice doesn’t even tremble. Her hair is long, and her skin is oddly pale, and the only symbol of distress she gives is that she is maybe blinking just slightly too often.

            “Do you know what you have to do?” Lightsong asks, nearly repeating what Llarimar had asked him, and not sure what answer he is hoping for.

            “Yes,” Telera responds, placing her hand on his shoulder. _Of course_. Physical contact is required. He had forgotten that, too, somehow. “Are you ready, Your Grace?”

            He is, he supposes. He tries not to let himself think about how pathetic it is that she is the one prompting him. “Yes.”

            “My life to yours. My Breath becomes yours.” It sounds rehearsed.

            Lightsong can see the Breath leave the girl, and he can feel it enter him, and he can feel himself regain his strength, and he can see her fade, just enough to notice. Guards come and take her, and he remains on his knees. The sun begins to set and the light in the room dims, and he remains on his knees. Llarimar (he assumes) knocks on the door once, twice, three times, and he remains on his knees.

            It is only when the door opens, and Llarimar rests his hand on his shoulder, gently, gently, that Lightsong even notices time has passed.

            If this is what being a god is, he wants no part in it.

           


End file.
